A Heart's Ransom
by europeanslang
Summary: After the events of the movie, Arthur finds out that Cobb's been kidnapped. He must enlist Eames's help if he wants to complete the job and save his team member's life. But will they get along well enough to extract the information they need? ArthurxEames
1. The Call

**_Welcome to my first, and possibly not last, ArthurxEames fic. This story is dedicated to one of my best friends, Hayley (Haggus Benwah), whose birthday was last week. Enjoy! ~ LC_**

Arthur's first clue that something was wrong was the time of the call. _Nothing good ever comes from a call at three in the morning_, he mused, rubbing his eyes. He sat up in the starchy hotel bed and stared at the frantic red light from the telephone with nervous hesitation. The die, his totem, glowed intermittently on the nightstand next to a hastily written address on a torn strip of paper. He let the phone ring once more before picking up the receiver.

"Hello?" he spoke softly, owing to his brief respite from sleep.

"Hello...Point Man." The deep alto shook Arthur awake. The voice spoke calmly, with calculation that betrayed its malicious intent.

"Wh-who...?" he choked out. He was temporarily thrown off balance by the anonymous caller's intimate knowledge of his profession.

"If I were you, I would spend less time wondering who I am and more time figuring out how you're going to get what I need."

He pressed his fingers to his temples and forced himself to think clearly.

"And what is it that you need, exactly?" Now that he was in control of his emotions, his voice regained its usual certainty, though there were enough thoughts racing around his head to make him slightly dizzy.

The voice on the other end chuckled, sending a shiver down Arthur's spine. He didn't find anything funny about the current situation.

"That's more like it, Point Man. Let's just say that this job is a little trickier than your typical extraction."

"Trickier?" His palms began to sweat. "If you're talking about inception, it can't be done." The crew had kept their most recent mission a secret. Even the most skilled extractors had no idea that they'd pulled off the impossible.

The line was silent for a few seconds, and Arthur feared that the line was dead. Then he heard the ghostly laughter and immediately wished it was.

"We both know that's a lie, Point Man. But don't worry - the job is not inconceivable...though you will need a little help from a friend."

He started to ask another question, but the caller cut him off.

"How about we discuss this...in person. Meet me at the bookstore two blocks from your hotel at eleven tomorrow. Look in the mystery section."

Arthur, receiver still pressed to his right ear, threw off the security of the bed sheets and reached for his silk tie that was draped around the bedpost.

"Oh, and if you're thinking about calling Cobb...well, let's just say that he won't be much help this time around."

Suddenly, Arthur heard a wheezing cough on the other end and he froze.

"Cobb?" he whispered. His only answer was a hoarse intake of breath. "Cobb!"

"The...forger..." Almost all the familiarity in his partner's voice was gone. He was either very sick, or very hurt.

"Cobb! What do you mean…Cobb?"

"The forger...he's..."

"Cobb, Cobb, don't worry, I'll help you, just tell me where you are-"

"I think now you understand the gravity of the situation."

"You bastard!" Arthur shouted furiously. He didn't care how early in the morning it was - Cobb was his colleague, and he was angered that he couldn't protect him. "Where the hell are you keeping him?"

"I'll see you in eight hours...Point Man." The line went dead for real this time, but not before he heard the eerie laughter one last time.

Arthur hung up the receiver and picked up his totem. He spent a long time focused on the die, passing it from hand to hand and analyzing the slick sides for scratches. When he was finally convinced that it was indeed the right weight, he looked at the clock. 3:10.

Silently, he got dressed, placed his totem in his vest pocket, snatched the scrap of paper from the nightstand, and left the hotel room without looking back. It was time to visit an old friend.


	2. The Reunion

The small piece of paper directed Arthur to the dimly lit apartment building about an hour and a half away from the hotel. He had half suspected that the address didn't actually exist and that it was an elegant prank; therefore, when the taxi driver stopped and announced his fine, he was simultaneously surprised and relieved. It was naive of him, he realized, to think that their paths wouldn't cross again.

It was still early- surely too early for him to be awake. Yet he had left his hotel room almost in a rush, heading straight to this apartment complex without considering why. He couldn't relax until he attained even a whisper of hope, a tentative guarantee that things would turn out alright.

The main hallway was appropriately silent for the hour, but Arthur could guess that the place wasn't much more exciting during the day. His footsteps detonated down the hallway like the beat of a drum. His perfectly slicked hair and neatly pressed tan three piece suit was incongruous with the faded cream floral wallpaper and the stained crimson carpet. The yellow tinted lighting gave the scene a stale quality. He couldn't help but think that his companion was much too lively to reside here.

It wasn't until he found the listed apartment number, 12794, that he began to think that he had any chance of seeing his old accomplice. A flood of excitement swirled in his stomach; he had missed his accomplice's witty banter, though he hadn't realized it until now.

The door was unpainted wood, unadorned save for a tiny peephole at his eye level and a brass colored door handle.

Something made him look to the left; the hallway was totally deserted and his anxious breathing was the only sound he could decipher. He shivered and turned back to the door, even more determined to go inside. He had a feeling that even his fears couldn't shake, a feeling that his friend was home, that he would help, that he would find a way to make it all better again.

Arthur took a deep breath and knocked firmly on the door. The apartment was silent. On a whim, he tried the handle. It was unlocked. Inside, the room was dark. His hand brushed the gun at his waist; but he thought better of it. Paranoia was a common ailment of his. Finally, feeling like a criminal, he glanced again down the hallway he knew was bare and then darted silently into the apartment.

As soon as he passed through the doorway, the door slammed behind him. Before he could turn or cry out, he was assaulted from behind. A left arm wrapped around his neck in a stranglehold and a chest pressed against his back. He grasped for the pistol at his waist, but his attacker got there first, blocking the holster with his free hand.

He sensed his assailant's head behind his right shoulder blade he could smell the unmistakable scent of gunpowder and smoke and a hint of some undisclosed spice. It was the scent of a man who spent more time on the run, the weight of a readied gun in his hand, than staying in one place and settling down. He stopped struggling, no longer fearing for his life. He felt the other's warm breath on his neck when his lips were just an inch away and he imagined feeling the prickle of stubble that he knew was there.

The whole exchange lasted only seconds, but that was all Arthur needed to identify the figure. His next words only confirmed it.

"Hello, love," a husky voice murmured.

_Eames._

"Eames," Arthur grunted. His friend's arm was still wrapped snugly around his neck, rendering it immobile. Even if he had been able to turn his head, he would have brushed noses with the other man. "Mind letting me go?"

"Oh, Arthur, it's been too long. I've missed that irritated tone of yours."

"I haven't missed your complete lack of sanity," Arthur growled. "Now let me go."

"Just as cheerful as I remember," Eames teased, but he released his grip.

Arthur turned to face him, rubbing his sore neck. "Warn me next time you attempt to strangle me."

"What's the point, then? There's no fun in it if you're not surprised," Eames complained as he turned on the lights. What Arthur saw nearly made the neat freak inside him flinch; it was clear that the resident of the small apartment did not think highly of organization. _What a stereotypical bachelor pad_, he sighed.

Eames noticed him eyeing the place with faint disgust. "As strong as your feelings seem to be about the cleanliness of my apartment, I know you're not here to discuss carpet shampoos and dusting techniques. So," he sat down on a leather armchair, "Why've you come, Arthur? Must be something bloody important, the sun's not even up yet."

Arthur noticed for the first time how tired Eames looked. He had been completely awake since the phone call at three, but his friend looked exhausted. His scarlet shirt was buttoned sporadically, his collar was turned up on one side, and his hair was sticking up as commonly as it was lying down. He looked like he had lost a fight with an ironing board and a bottle of hair gel. Arthur was amazed, and a little insulted, that he had been able to overpower him in his condition. However, his concern for his Eames outweighed his shame over his defeat.

"Are you okay?" he asked. "You look rather..." He gestured toward his friend's unkempt appearance. "Disheveled."

"Yeah, I'm all right, I guess," Eames replied with a yawn. "Haven't slept well the past couple months. But I can stay awake for a few minutes more so, please, oblige me. What mischief have you and Cobb gotten yourselves into this time?" He smirked.

Arthur decided not to tread lightly. "Cobb's been kidnapped, Eames. I got a call this morning at the hotel I was staying at. They'll kill him unless I complete a job for them."

Eames leaned back in his chair. "How exciting...what's the job?"

"I don't know yet," Arthur said, crossing his arms. "But I can't do it alone."

Eames chuckled. "Well, that should be glaringly apparent."

Arthur frowned. "Hey, I-"

"A-ta-ta!" Eames stood up suddenly. "Not to worry, Arthur dear. I, Eames the forger, am at your service." He bowed deeply. Arthur didn't know if he should be annoyed or amused, and found that he was feeling a little of both. But soon the urgency of their position caught back up to him.

"Good. Now, we're going to need to find Ariadne, and we should track down Yusuf in Mombasa, and -"

Arthur hadn't noticed he had stated pacing until Eames's firm hand on his shoulder made him stop.

"No."

"No...what?"

Eames looked into Arthur's eyes with an earnest determination he rarely saw. "We don't need Ariadne, or Yusuf, or even Cobb. We can manage on our own, hm?" a smile flickered across his face.

Arthur looked into his friend's eyes and simply forgot to think for a while. He was used to seeing the man's eyes sparkle with amusement, often at his own expense, but now they seemed to shine from a different source. Even if he hadn't spoken, he found all the confidence, reassurance, and comfort he needed in his gaze.

"Arthur? Arthur, are you with me?" Now confusion flashed in Eames's eyes, and the spell was broken.

"Um…yeah. What? Right. Yeah," Arthur stammered, turning away to hide the blush rising in his cheeks.

Eames smirked. "Well. Now that that's settled, where're we off to?" He walked by Arthur to the closet and removed his leather jacket. "Until this little pickle is over with I don't think either of us will be getting much sleep."

Now composed, Arthur chimed in. "The caller told me to meet him at eleven in a bookstore near the hotel I was staying at."

"A bookstore?" Eames repeated. He was staring at his reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall with the utmost concentration. He rubbed the scruffy area around his mouth pensively.

"Yeah," Arthur replied, realizing suddenly that he was absentmindedly watching the other man tidy up his appearance. "He told me to wait in the mystery section." He scanned the room for something to focus on, but it was a useless search. The idea of Eames caring about his appearance was far too appealing to him.

"My, how melodramatic," Eames sighed. Now he was buttoning his shirt and attempting to create some order in his haircut. It was a desperate struggle, especially without a comb.

Arthur spotted the collar of his shirt still sticking up near the nape of his neck. It would be a difficult spot for Eames to reach.

"Eames, your collar, let me-" Arthur reached toward the unruly collar as he spoke, unaware that Eames was also about to address the problem. Their fingers brushed. Arthur whipped his hand back as if he had touched hot coals, as if by revoking his fingers he could cause time to do the same and erase his grievous error. He wasn't quite sure what had happened, but he must have done something wrong to illicit such a dramatic and instinctive response.

His strange behavior did not go unnoticed by the other man. "What's the matter? I don't bite," he said, looking at Arthur through the mirror. He adjusted his jacket with a final tug and turned to face him. "That is, unless you'd like me to," he grinned mischievously.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "And why on earth, Mr. Eames, would I ever want that?" he couldn't help but smile.

"Who knows?" Eames sighed theatrically, flashing Arthur a smile in return. It was a smile that hinted at secrets, at inside jokes and privileged information that distinguished the two of them from the riff raff.

"One day, my sweet, you may find yourself no longer able to fight my irresistible charm," Eames winked, sending a shiver down his spine.

"Alright, Casanova, let's get going then," Arthur said.

"After you," Eames replied, gesturing towards the door with a sly grin. But as he neared the doorway, Arthur was suddenly immobilized by hesitation.

"Now, now, what's the trouble?" Eames asked, folding his arms.

Arthur tried to shrug it off, but his companion knew better.

"Now listen here, Arthur, because I'm only going to say it once. I trust you. And I know for a fact you trust me too, otherwise you wouldn't have put all your faith in that bloody scrap of paper and come find me at such an ungodly hour."

Suddenly, his voice assumed a darker, more demanding tone. "I implore you; try to relax before this job gets difficult. Now, _darling_, take the lead out and walk out that door before I carry you out myself."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. Eames was entirely right, of course. But he didn't take his threats seriously.

"What raw anger, Mr. Eames. Seems that your sleepless nights have been catching up to you."

Eames was about to protest, but Arthur held up a finger to silence him.

"I'll tell you what; I feel awful for coming to see you so early - how about some coffee on me to make up for my "ungodly" visit?"

Eames grinned. "That's more like it, kitten. I think I'll take you up on your offer."

As he headed out the door, Arthur recalled why he had missed Eames so much; he made him feel invincible.


	3. The Bookstore

**Chapter 3 is here! Thank you to everyone who has added this story to their alert list. I only ask that you enjoy this chapter and please review! I don't know why nobody has, but it doesn't take too long and it helps me as a writer. Thanks! ~ LC**

The bookstore was once a cozy affair, but now it suffered from an overgrowth of novels, novellas, and magazines. It would seem that the supply exceeded demand, and had done so for many years. Recent releases shined on a display placed directly in front of the entrance. Next to it was a collection of books that were several years old, the residue from the "NEW" stickers staining the glossy covers.

The two men entered through the glass door at the front of the store with visible apprehension. The tinkling bell overhead alerted the owner and his sole customer to their presence. The storekeeper was a man who enjoyed the company of a good book more than the company of a good friend. His coke-bottle glasses and bushy, quivering mustache hinted at his shy but charming personality.

His only patron trumped him in height but not in age. His face and his suit were faded and wrinkled after years of weary apathy. He removed his gaze from his World War II book when they walked in and didn't look up again.

Arthur and Eames arrived early, giving themselves opportunity to familiarize themselves with the surroundings. What they found was not to their liking.

The mystery section was completely concealed when viewed from the shop entrance. It was a narrow passage that ended abruptly in a beige painted concrete wall. The only way out of the aisle was also the only way in.

Arthur ran his fingers through his slicked back hair as he mulled it over. If the man he was meeting stood between him and the end of the aisle, it would be very difficult to escape, and entirely impossible to do so quietly.

Eames sensed his quiet deliberation and guessed correctly at its source.

"Not much room for error, hm?" he muttered.

Arthur nodded. "Which is why you'll be keeping watch." He started to walk away when Eames grabbed his arm.

"Arthur, I'm not sure that's a good idea," Eames protested. "You should have backup of some kind."

He shook his head. "We can't risk scaring this guy off. We need the information to complete the job and save Cobb's life."

"You're being rash," Eames argued. "We have no idea who this guy is or who he's working for. He could have accomplices stationed around the store. The whole meeting could be a trap."

"I can handle a thug or two," Arthur replied calmly. "Besides, you'll be an aisle away in case I need help."

"But, Arthur -"

"Why do you care so much?" Arthur asked suddenly. "I don't believe it's _your_ life on the line here."

The question caught Eames off guard. He stared at the ground for a couple seconds. When he looked up, his eyes were the same brilliant blue that they were in the apartment.

"I...I'd hate to see you hurt, darling," he said softly.

Arthur had to look away from Eames's intense gaze. He had seen something in his eyes that he couldn't ignore. He didn't know what it was, but it terrified him.

Desperately looking for a way to end the awkward moment, he clumsily looked at his watch.

"A pocket watch?" Eames said incredulously. He was back to his playful self. "I don't suppose you have a monocle and false whiskers in your jacket as well?"

However, Arthur could not come up with a clever reply because he was too consumed by the watch's circular face. The minute hand in particular grabbed his attention as it crept closer and closer to the number twelve.

"Dammit," Arthur whispered.

"Hmm?" Eames cocked his head to the side. "What-"

"There's no time, we-"

He was cut off by the chime of the bell at the front of the store. Without thinking, Arthur grabbed Eames's shoulders and pushed him into the back of the nearest section: romance.

He stared at him with a look of bewilderment and amusement. "As interesting as that little maneuver was-"

Arthur quickly clamped his hand over his mouth. "Shut up!" he hissed. "Its eleven o'clock and it's a very good possibility that the man I'm supposed to meet with is less than ten feet away from where we're standing."

"Well let's find out for sure, shall we?" Eames said under his breath. Without hesitation or due warning, he placed his hands on Arthur's hips and smoothly pushed him out of his way.

"Watch my right hand," he whispered in his ear, and then walked out of the aisle. Arthur stopped at the edge of the shelves to watch.

Eames calmly walked past the rows of books, nonchalantly glanced into the mystery section, and continued onward. At his side, he extended the thumb, pointer finger, and middle finger on his right hand, then closed his fist. Arthur understood the gesture as sign language for "no." The mystery section was empty.

He now had a choice to make. He could enter the mystery section now and put himself in a compromising position, or wait until someone had entered the section and then follow. Realizing that his behavior may seem suspicious and that the man he was meeting may be watching him, he coolly made his way to the designated meeting place.

Minutes past that stretched on for miles. He must have read all of the book titles three times each. He scanned the shelves in a focused attempt at interest from Abbott to Wylan and back again as he waited. He ached to check the time, but he didn't want to be distracted when the man showed up.

Suddenly, Arthur heard footsteps resonate loudly at the end of the aisle. His eyes darted to the left, expecting to be greeted by a formidable figure of unknown status. He was so anxious that he would have been relieved to finally meet the man before his stomach could have a chance to tie itself into any more nervous knots.

What he did see, however, was just an empty aisle. When his eyes returned to the shelf directly in front of him, he stumbled upon a thick manila envelope jutting out past the books, almost brushing him between the eyes. The sudden discovery made him jump; it was inconceivable to think that he could have missed it, let alone twice.

Cautiously, he slid the envelope out of the shelf and glanced into the gap it left. There was nobody in the adjacent aisle.

Satisfied that he wasn't in immediate danger, his attention turned to the envelope. The only writing on it was the initials "PM." He whistled.

A few seconds later, Eames appeared by his side. "Well?" he asked expectantly.

"Our man was too shy to show his face, but he did leave us a nice present." Arthur explained, opening the metal clasp on the envelope.

The stack of papers inside was about a quarter of an inch thick. Without hesitation, he began examining the first page. Beside him, Eames rested his left arm on his shoulder. Arthur was so engrossed in reading that he barely registered it. Eames tried to emulate his partner's concentration but could not find the enthusiasm to do anything but scan it. He scratched his nose absentmindedly, his boredom visible on his scruffy face.

After a minute of reading in silence, Arthur abruptly put the papers back into the envelope.

"We should take a better look at this somewhere else," he stated simply.

"What's the rush?" Eames teased. "You got a date?"

"That depends," Arthur smiled. "You hungry?"


	4. The Chinese Restaurant

_**Chapter four has arrived! Inspiration for this chapter came from personal experience, mostly. I am obsessed with chinese food; general tso's and house fried rice in particular. The waitress, too, comes from my life. In fact, she IS me! *record skip* Shocking, right? I wanted to see how Arthur and Eames would react to a hugely obsessive fangirl like moi. Anyway, enjoy this chapter and all the humor and winking I crammed into it!**_

The fine Chinese restaurant a couple blocks away was one of Arthur's favorites. During his stay in this city, he frequented it whenever he wanted to lose himself in the venue's overpowering oriental atmosphere or lose his stress in a quiet dinner. On any other day, this wouldn't be an issue for him; the dim, golden lighting from the tangerine paper lamps and the intense color scheme of deep red and polished gold and midnight wood hypnotized him and caused his anxiety to evaporate among the snow capped mountains and twisted bonsai trees. It was normally a relatively effortless transportation, especially when he needed peace the most (and boy, did he need it right now), but it was incredibly foolish of him to believe, even for a second, that a quiet meal with Eames would be anything but a joke.

The delicate mandolin pervading the restaurant was constantly interrupted by the disagreeable clash of silver and ceramic upon Eames's plate. The recurrent screeches were like record scratches, causing Arthur's train of thought to jump off the track. He wasn't the only one to notice the discordant scraping; the furious vermillion dragon that snaked across the ceiling glared at Eames with silent disapproval.

_Shing. Shing. Shing_. Arthur tried not to stare at Eames and instead focused on his rice; but soon the dissonant sound tried his patience.

"Eames," he whispered carefully. He had a sinking feeling that they were about to cause a scene.

Eames made no sign that he heard him, which was entirely feasible given the crispy texture of his General Tso's chicken.

"Eames," Arthur repeated. He spoke, to his personal dissatisfaction, at a slightly louder volume than the atmosphere permitted.

"Hm?" Eames replied with his mouth full. A second later, his plate shrieked, the sound as disagreeable to Arthur's ears as an out of tune violin.

"Please keep in mind that we're in a rather expensive restaurant," Arthur scolded, his tone matching that of a parent to an unruly child. "Not some Irish pub."

"I haven't the slightest clue what you're talking about, dear," Eames replied as he chewed.

"Then direct your attention to your eating utensil," Arthur spoke calmly, no matter how annoyed he was by the man's ignorance. "You are the only one in the entire restaurant who insists on using a fork."

"So what would you have me do, eat with a pair of sticks?" Eames replied, pointedly shoveling a pile of rice into his mouth.

"Well, of course not," Arthur said sarcastically. "It's not like this is a Chinese restaurant or anything."

Eames slammed down his plate. "I don't care if we're in the bloody Forbidden City!" His anger forgotten, Arthur frantically tried to quiet him. But it was too late for pleading; his feeling had been right.

"I will never eat with chopsticks, and you know why? Because chopsticks are for bloody pansies!" Eames yelled emotionally, causing patrons at the nearest tables to glance with skepticism in their direction.

Humiliated, Arthur covered his forehead with his left hand. "I should have known better than to bring you here," he muttered.

The words only fed his fury. "Oh thank you, Arthur," he mocked, "Thank you so much for deciding to take me to one of your fancy restaurants just so you could patronize me with your stupid chopsticks and that...that naff vest of yours!"

Arthur frowned. He liked his vest. It was mahogany, and one of his favorites. He was about to tell Eames when he noticed an amused girl standing immediately to his left. A second later, he noticed her as well and the anger drained from his face.

The men recognized her as their waitress. She was skinny, brunette, and very white. Her brown eyes shined behind her purple rimmed glasses when she spoke to them and absolutely glowed when they talked to her. Ever so often, her face would erupt in a giant smile for seemingly no reason at all, causing Arthur to doubt her sanity. Once, Eames winked at her and she'd nearly screamed.

Now she was smiling in a way that hinted at secrets. It made Arthur slightly uneasy, but he could sense that this girl was no threat; her apparent adoration for the two of them was unwonted, but benign.

She quickly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Sorry," she said, suppressing a huge grin, "For a second there you guys seemed like…Anyway, do you guys need anything? Perhaps a pair of chop sticks?" She giggled.

"We're fine, thanks," Arthur said, irritated at Eames, who was now looking at the waitress with an entertained look on his face.

Eames was more familiar with this phenomenon than Arthur was; it pleased him to no end when he found a girl who was smitten with him. "What did you just say, love? We seemed like…what, exactly, miss…" He read her nametag. "Miss Amanda?"

Amanda the waitress radiated happiness. His flirting had produced a reaction that one would attribute to a large gift of money or a marriage proposal.

"Well," she started gleefully, "You two sounded…like a married couple!" She flashed her knowing smile.

Arthur was about to explain to the ignorant waitress about how and why she was grievously wrong when he saw Eames's face. A satisfied smile was plastered there, which only grew when he saw his shocked expression.

"Say, Amanda," Eames said, staring at Arthur, "Why don't you leave the two of us alone for a bit and come check on us later? Wouldn't want to neglect your loyal customers, would we?" She grinned back at him mischievously, nodded to them both, and then ran off, her ponytail bobbing into the distance.

"She'll be back soon," Eames stated, smiling faintly. "So let's take a closer look at those papers, wifey."

Arthur groaned. "That waitress is clearly delusional; I have no idea why you humor her. He removed the envelope from his jacket pocket. "And don't call me wifey."

"Sorry, love," Eames said as he placed his chair next to Arthur's, "Just trying to diversify, is all."

He removed the papers and, for the first time that meal, Arthur's mind was not on Eames, in one form or another. He was engrossed in the information contained within, the fact on which Cobb's life depended.

The first page in the stack was the hospital record for "Katerina Cole." female, Caucasian, 19 years old. Admitted to Noble Heart Hospital three weeks ago after a serious automobile accident. Severe burns on her shoulders and arms, fractured vertebrae, broken leg. She has been in a coma ever since.

After Eames had read the report (Arthur was the faster reader and waited for him), he exhaled sharply. "Arthur...you don't suppose..."

"I'm afraid I do," Arthur replied grimly. "Eames, I think this is our subject."

He turned the page. The next paper had a color photograph attached with a loose paperclip. Katerina was a cheerful blonde with big hazel eyes. It was hard looking at her smiling face, knowing that this girl was gone. There wasn't a picture of Katerina after her accident.

The paper behind the picture contained further information about Noble Heart. The nurse schedule was there, along with the hospital's address and a code scribbled at the bottom in black ink: ICU 112.

"Looks like a room number," Arthur pondered aloud.

Eames nodded. "Seems like someone wants us to pay Katerina a visit."

The next page was a profile of an engineering company - Dimount Corp. It filed for bankruptcy about a month ago. Something about the name snagged a piece of Arthur's memory.

"I've heard that name before," he muttered. It was a second before he remembered the source. "I think...Cobb did a job for them once."

"I'm not so sure we can write that off as coincidence," Eames said pensively. He stood up. "I gotta run to the john," he announced. "Be back in a bit."

After he left, Arthur flipped to the next page. It was another photo, though it was taken years before the first. Katerina (he was certain it was her; her hair was shorter, but her eyes remained just as large and brilliant) looked about seven or eight. She was in the arms of a tall man in his mid 30s. He had short dark hair, a generous mustache, and a carefree smile. Arthur assumed the man was her father. He wondered if he was still alive.

Suddenly he became aware of a presence behind him. He covered the papers with the envelope and whipped his head around to meet the gaze of the waitress.

"Are you guys all set with your meal?" she asked, oblivious to the documents in his lap.

"yes, thank you." Arthur covertly stuffed the papers back in their home while he spoke.

The waitress began stacking plates in her arms for their journey back to the kitchen. Uncertainty darted across her face as she spoke. "I was meaning to ask you earlier...I mean, I didn't want to assume..."

Something about her question made Arthur paranoid. "No, no no," he responded quickly. "We're not together, we're just friends, that's all."

Amanda the waitress smiled devilishly. "Actually, I was wondering if you two were getting separate checks."

"Oh," Arthur replied, mortified. "We, uhh..." Eames caught his eye as he walked out of the bathroom. Arthur watched as he craftily filched a fortune cookie from a vacated plate without slowing his pace or even glancing at the table. He sighed. "One check, please."

"Gotcha," she grunted, producing the bill while balancing several plates.

Arthur reluctantly looked at the total: $98.02. He sighed, cursing Eames's insatiable appetite. After a quick mental calculation, he left the cash on the table plus fourteen for the tip. It was then that he noticed the piece of napkin wedged behind the bill. It was a phone number enclosed in a heart. He rolled his eyes, but decided to keep it. He could get used to having fangirls.

Arthur started putting on his jacket when Eames returned. "Ready to go?"

"To where, darling?" Eames plucked a final piece of chicken off his plate. The waitress hadn't returned for the rest of the dishes yet.

"Noble Heart Hospital. It's our only lead. According to the nurse schedule, there's only one person on duty beginning at 1:30. Right now it is..." he checked his pocket watch. "One. We'd better hurry."

"Maybe Katerina can give us some clues about the kidnapper," Eames said thoughtfully as the walked out the restaurant entrance.

"Eames," Arthur said, attracting his attention. "You realize she is a comatose car accident victim?"

"Well obviously," he stated. A taxi was pulling up to the curb, beckoned by his outstretched hand.

"So how do you suggest we talk to her if she's in a coma?

"It's very simple, lamb," Eames smiled, opening the door for Arthur. "We wake her up."


	5. The Hospital

**_In this exciting installment, I tread the delicate line of OOC, create awkward romantic tension, and make my characters perform a very unique and strange kind of extraction. This chapter is rather long, which serves as my apology for taking so long lately. However, this week is February vacation so I expect to post much faster ;) As always, review if you'd like and above all, enjoy! ~ LC_**

Half an hour later, the taxi pulled up to the hospital. When they stepped out, Arthur was carrying a thick metal briefcase and Eames held a bouquet of pink daisies.

Having familiarized themselves with the building layout on the ride, they walked confidently to the intensive care unit, unwilling to show the slightest shade of hesitation. Their facade was a success; they blended in with the hurried and determined nurses and doctors that populated the pastel hallways.

But as soon as his nose was assaulted with the sterilized scent of the hospital reception area, Arthur wished that they could leave. Despite his love for organization and hygiene, he loathed hospitals because of what they represented for him: weakness. Admittance to a hospital bed was not always a death warrant, but once you found yourself there, you were powerless to affect your fate. He had visited old team members in hospitals dozens of times after a job gone wrong. For some, their stay was just a phase, a brief nightmare in their long and happy life. But he had seen just as many spend their last days inside the stiff cold walls where emotion came to die. It was one of his greatest fears; to wind up in a hospital and place his life in the hands of faceless doctors who he was forced to trust.

Things were less chaotic in the ICU. The bare white hallway hummed with electronic life. Arthur spotted room 112 on the right side. It was not so close to the nurse station to arouse immediate notice. The sole nurse on duty was preoccupied with her woman magazine; if they could just slip in –

"Hey!" called a voice from behind them just as Eames was about to turn the door handle. A pudgy middle aged woman in lavender scrubs put down her magazine. "Where do you two think you're going?"

"Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry," Eames began before Arthur could say a word. "We heard about Miss Katerina's accident and thought we'd pay her a visit," he held up the flowers for proof. Arthur was awestruck by the ease at which Eames fabricated the lie; after years of pretending to be others, it came naturally to him.

"Ah," she said. Her voice had become less threatening. She gestured to a clipboard on the desk in front of her. "Sign in here."

"Oh, right, of course, love," Eames replied with a sparkling smile. He was really playing up his flirtatious accent. Arthur was amused; he was well aware of his voice's allure. They approached the desk. Papers of assorted sizes and shades of grey covered the area in a light dust. Outdated computer monitors droned next to shelves, boxes, and drawers stuffed with manila folders. The only thing more formidable than the endless stream of patients, it seemed, was the avalanche of paperwork that followed. Arthur signed the clipboard and then passed the pen to Eames. "You see," he continued, his signature growing on the off-white paper, "We work with her father, and-"

"Oh, you do?" The nurse interrupted abruptly. She squinted suspiciously. "It's a real shame, isn't it? What happened to him."

She was clearly testing them, but they had no idea what the right answer was. All Eames could do was bluff his way out of it. He could tell that the situation was falling out of their control.

"Ummm yeah, yeah, quite a tragedy, isn't it? I wager we'll visit him next, isn't that right -"

"Noah Cole is dead," the nurse said carefully. "He passed away last night. I'm shocked you haven't heard…I mean, if you really worked with him..." She glared at them, her eyes demanding explanation.

For half a second Eames lost his composure. Before Arthur could blink, it was back. But he knew that the skeptical nurse could see through his front. He had to do something drastic if they were to get into that hospital room.

Eames tried unconvincingly to act surprised. "Oh dear, what a, uh, pity-"

"Oh god!" Arthur cried, shocking both Eames and the nurse, whose faces were matching expressions of terror and surprise. "Noah's gone! Not him! No, no, no!" he began to cry. Loudly.

Eames quickly realized his plan. He turned to the nurse. "What the hell is the matter with you? Look at how upset he is!" he chided.  
Arthur was sobbing, his hand covering his face.

Now the nurse was put on the spot. "I-I'm sorry," she stammered. "I...I thought-"

"A shame indeed!" Eames boomed. "How dare you think we were impostors! And now you've gotten poor Steve here in hysterics. You've gone and made him a right blubbering fool!"

"A-a good...friend..." Arthur (Steve) sniffed.

"Well don't just stand there, woman!" Eames admonished. "Go get the man some tissues and ice water; he can't be seen in public like this!"

Spouting nonsensical apologies, the flustered nurse dashed away. The instant she turned the corner, Arthur removed his hand, revealing a sly smile.

"Darling, that was bloody brilliant," Eames grinned. "A bit overdramatic, but brilliant nevertheless."

"Let's go," Arthur said, heading to the hospital room. "You'll have plenty of time to lavish me with praise after." He couldn't hide the smile growing on his face.

The door opened without complaint. Once they were inside, Eames quickly shut the blinds and then turned to face Arthur, who had just closed the door securely. The two men stood less than a foot apart, each with a shoulder resting against the door.

"I've never seen you lose your composure like that, love," Eames said softly, so softly that Arthur had difficulty hearing him despite their close proximity.

"It…it was nothing," Arthur said hastily. All of the confidence he had earned after his little display was gone, drawn back in a waning tide of emotion. He felt suddenly and completely naked under Eames's tender gaze. He tried to back up, walk away, anything to remove himself from this inconvenient moment, but his legs could not move, as if his body wanted to see how the situation played out.

Eames laughed quietly. "It was most certainly not nothing, Arthur dear…in fact," he extended his hand toward his face. Arthur inhaled sharply, but made no effort to move away. "I found it rather…enthralling."

Eames's fingers felt like a warm gossamer breeze against his neck. His grip on reality faltered slightly. He felt both feverishly warm and fiercely cold at once. He couldn't tell if his vision was suffering or if Eames's head was moving ever so slightly closer…

"Eames, we…we only have a few minutes," Arthur heard himself whisper, though he wasn't sure what he meant by it. He saw something flash across Eames's face like a shadow – he could have sworn it was disappointment.

Just as suddenly as it had evaporated, his confident nature returned. "We've plenty of time," Eames replied. "And if we need more, you can always sob again for the nursing staff." He yanked the heavy briefcase from Arthur's loose grasp and walked into the center of the room, finally breaking their commanding eye contact.

"Ha, ha," Arthur replied halfheartedly. He followed Eames, intending to supply him with a clever comeback, but then he noticed Katerina for the first time.

Arthur regretted ever seeing the glossy photograph. The figure lying on the bed in the middle of the room was much harder to look at because he knew that, not too long ago, she had been beautiful.

The thin white sheets rested awkwardly on her disproportionate body, hiding the majority of her injuries. Her broken leg was hoisted in the metal brace that he had seen more often in television shows and movies than real life. There was a network of tubes branching out from her body to an assortment of whirling machines that served as her only company. And, despite the bruises that littered her face, despite the frame of ashen blonde hair that surrounded it; even though her cheekbones were discernible underneath her thin cheeks, she looked peaceful. She was a train wreck of a girl; when Arthur was finally able to tear his gaze away, he was relieved.

"So what was does this plan of yours entail, exactly?" Arthur said, scanning the room gingerly. An older TV model hung pointlessly in the corner of the room. A posse of flower arrangements sat on and around a table near her bedside. Eames had opened the briefcase on the table, revealing the mysterious machine that allowed them to traverse people's dreams.

"Well, kitten," he sighed. "I was thinking we could enter her dream and try to communicate with her that way. I mean, not sure what we'll find down there, but it's worth a shot."

"You mean…you've never done this before?" Arthur looked at him with alarm.

He shrugged calmly. "No, but it shouldn't matter. Comatose people are still capable of critical thought in most cases...it's just more difficult to tell their conscious from their subconscious."

"And what if she's brain dead? How will we wake ourselves if-"

"Look, love, we can talk all day about what could be down there," Eames put down the wires he was working on and looked at Arthur, "But that won't make it any less risky. Now, do you trust me?"

Arthur hesitated for a second. "Yes." The chart on the bottom of her bed suddenly caught his eye.

"Good," Eames said as he dragged two chairs near the table. "I set it for two minutes; that'll give us about half an hour in the dream."

Arthur was still staring at the bed frame, though he couldn't place the root of his interest.

"Arthur, it's now or never," Eames urged gently. With a grim nod, Arthur took the wire from his outstretched hand, sat down, and touched it to the inside of his wrist; he fell asleep instantaneously.

* * *

In the terrifying seconds after he opened his eyes, Arthur thought he was dead. It was the only way to explain the total lack of everything that assaulted his vision. No land, no sky, no color. The dream, if it could be called that, was completely white, blinding as the light reflected off a mountain of snow. Its uniformity was unnerving.

Nowhere did his eyes detect any shade or changes in gradation; the world was totally white, the brightest shade he had ever seen. It was awful and beautiful all at once.

He stood up; his feet felt a solid floor, yet his eyes saw no ground. Gravity and other laws of physics were still in place, though he was not comforted. He had no comprehension of the dimensions of this place; the white seemed to suffocate him with its proximity and amaze him with its vastness at the same time. What he yearned for the most was some sign of habitation, of the presence of anyone other than himself. Even his shadow did not keep him company. He was entirely alone.

"Eames!" he called. His plea was swallowed by the completely blank canvas that surrounded him.

He had no sense of direction, no idea of his purpose, and no certainty of his fate.

His traumatic episode ended abruptly when Arthur discovered that Eames was suddenly perfectly there.

"Ah there you are," Eames said with relief. It seemed that the world had had the same injurious effect on him. "Let's find Katerina, shall we?"

They walked, in silence, for an immeasurable length of time. The quiet between them was unusual, but not unfounded. Nothing could be measured by conventional means in a world without landmarks or celestial bodies or reason. In such an empty, bleak world, there wasn't much to say.

Arthur, waist deep in his heavy thoughts, did not notice when the grey speck appeared in his vision, only that it was there. He would have guessed it was far away, but his depth perception was all but void here.

Slowly the dot increased in size and complexity until he made it out to be a bed. It wasn't until they were at its side that he identified the figure sleeping on its plush surface as Katerina herself.

The bed was much more amicable than the one back in reality; it was more at home in a teenage bedroom than a hospital wing. Katerina, though uninjured, looked eerily transparent in a simple white dress, as if the white sea had begun to devour her.

"She's lovely," Eames whispered.

"Let's help her come back to reality," Arthur replied bleakly.

Soon it became obvious to them that this was a task far easier said than done. The pair tried unsuccessfully for several minutes to wake her. They tried whispers and screams, demands and pleas. They were acutely aware of the continuous drain of their critical time.

Eames nearly slapped her in his anger, but Arthur gripped his arm at the last second. Embarrassed, he threw his hands in his pockets.

"I suppose this means that arsehole nurse is going to catch us after all," he mused sadly. "It's a real shame," he mimicked, his voice a near match of the nurse's snappy tone.

Arthur, who had been pacing, paused at his words. "The nurse..." he repeated. He blinked, as if he could physically see the idea he was attempting to clarify. "That's it, Eames!" he exclaimed.

"What i- " Before he could even ask his question, Arthur had rushed to her bedside, his enthusiasm in their task newly refreshed.

"Katerina," he urged, "You need to wake up right now. Do you know why? Because your father is dead. Noah Cole is dead."

His statement's effect was immediate. As soon as Arthur had finished speaking, Katerina's eyes snapped open. Her hazel irises outdid the whiteness in sheer brilliance, though Arthur could only catch a glimpse before the dream collapsed.

He awoke with a gasp, his lungs grateful for familiar air. Beside him, Eames jolted awake as well. They shared a cautious glance before standing and looking forward.

On the bed, Katerina was conscious and becoming increasingly aware of the severity of her injuries with haunting innocence. She was staring at the taught IV in her arm with all of the wonder of a newborn deer familiarizing herself with her ungainly appendages. For a second, Arthur wondered if they had alleviated her situation at all or if she had been better off ignorant of her physical state. Gradually her eyes drifted from her disfigured body to the two men standing at the end of her bed. The hazy recognition in her eyes told Arthur that she remembered what they had done, at least subconsciously. Confusion was the dominant emotion that played on her face. She tried to speak and nearly gagged on the tube in her throat.

"We should go," Arthur said anxiously. It had been exactly four minutes, according to his pocket watch, since Eames had sent the nurse away, and he questioned the scarcity of tap water in the building. She would soon return and find the hallway incriminatingly empty, if she hadn't already.

"Right, love," Eames said, but he wasn't focused on him, or even the need for their prompt escape. He walked to Katerina's side and held her hand.

"It'll be alright, Katerina," he said tenderly, shocking Arthur with his empathy. "We'll make it right." He and the girl shared a moment of eye contact, then he pressed a rectangular red button on the bed railing and quickly strided to the door.

"Coming, dearheart?" he asked, glancing out the door. "As happy as the doctors will be when they find that Katerina is awake, I'd hate to be here when they show up."

With a final, lingering glance at the chart at the foot of the bed, Arthur followed Eames out of the room.

The genius of Eames's escape plan was that they only had to evacuate the immediate hallway; any nurses they encountered farther along their route would not have time to evaluate their character on their rushed way to the alarm that sounded in the very room they had left.


	6. The Hospital, Part 2: The Nurse

**_Hey guys. So it's a Tuesday night right and I feel like posting BUT chapter 6 isn't totally finished yet sooooo here comes this little tidbit I like to call "Chapter 5-2." I know, it's cheap, but I just don't like this nurse. Also I squeezed in a reference to The Dark Knight Rises, aka the greatest movie that hasn't been filmed yet (both Arthur and Eames's actors, Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Tom Hardy, are going to be in it). Enjoy...Chapter 6 is coming soon, I promise! ~LC_**

The plan was barely successful. As the flustered nurse in lavender returned to her post, brandishing a Dixie cup of water and a full box of tissues, she caught the last inch of Arthur's tan suit coat before it disappeared around the corner, hinting at the mischief that they had committed.

Flustered, she threw down her gifts. She was about to call out to enlist the help of pretty much anyone when she noticed the hurried migration of nurses and doctors to room 112, observing with tardy fear the blinking red light outside the door.

She followed the herd and witnessed its temperament evolve from resigned pessimism to confused awe. She, along with the rest of the staff that stalked the halls of the intensive care unit, was familiar with the plight of Katerina Cole. It was hard not to accumulate knowledge and even care about the patients ill enough to warrant an extended stay, and she was no different.

Therefore, when she saw the aforementioned patient raising her bruised and burned arms and blinking her lucid eyes in full compliance with the doctor's instructions, she felt the crashing wave of genuine joy that was made all the more relieving by the daily dearth of even odds. All around her, her coworkers were moved, some to tears, by lifted curse.

She was removed prematurely from this happy state by the presence of the hot pink daisies on the table that were as artificial as the men that had planted them. Her surplus glee morphed into rage; she knew that somehow they had manufactured this miracle and used this subtle torture to manifest their malicious intent. No longer did she believe that this revival was anything but temporary.

"I'll be damned," the doctor muttered in amazement. "I didn't dare think...and with normal brain function...nurse!" He barked suddenly. "What precipitated this drastic recovery?"

The nurse in purple scrubs faltered under the doctors demanding gaze. Even her anger wasn't a match for his authoritative demeanor.

"I, uh...I don't know, exactly..." she stammered. All eyes were on her.

"You don't know?" he roared. "You mean you weren't with the patient when she woke up?"

"Well, no, I was, uh..."

"Then who was?" His voice boomed over the constant purr of the machines. "Someone must have pressed the emergency button; the patient's current condition, it's out of her reach!"

"Ahhhh," the nurse stalled, her eyes searching for an excuse that would satisfy the doctor and let her save face. They rested on the daisies. "I'll tell you who was here!" Her confidence returned with her fury. "Two men rushed in here five minutes ago and barricaded the door before I could stop them," her story gained momentum and her voice grew louder, "So I ran off to get help, and while I was gone they set off the alarm and escaped!"

The doctor was taken aback at the elaborateness of her story, though he wasn't convinced of its accuracy. "If that's true...then what did these men do in those five minutes to wake her up?"

The nurse replied by placing her hands on her hips. "Why don't you ask them? Check the sign in sheet," she answered almost merrily. "I tricked them into writing their names down!"

Deciding not to question this incongruous detail, the doctor followed the triumphant nurse to the nurse station. She handed him the clipboard smugly, awaiting the revelation of the criminals' identities. Instead, she watched as his face grew in hostility.

"If this is your idea of a joke," he glared, "Then I think I'll have a word with your supervisor, _nurse_." He stormed back into the hospital room, leaving behind one bewildered and terrified nurse. She snatched the clipboard and scanned the list herself. When she reached the last two entries, she slammed the clipboard down in irritation. If the list's authority was to be trusted, as she had insisted, then the last two visitors to room 112 were none other than Batman and his sidekick Robin.


	7. The Fortune

_**um. hey guys. if any of you are still here, i'm really really sorry. i guess i kinda blew it..its been...*checks calendar* four months? five months. i could take the time to explain that i was very busy with school and love and such but you didnt come here for excuses. you came for a goddamn story. so here is the next installment. and believe me when i say the next is already in the works. **_

Arthur maintained his act of a distracted businessman until he felt the jolt of the cab door slam securely behind him. Only then did he shrug off the stress that had bound his nerves during their hasty leave. As the adrenaline evaporated from his temporarily weary muscles, he reflected on whether he had ever experienced such luxurious upholstery in such a modest taxi. He sighed and rested his forehead tentatively on the chill window glass. His eyelids fluttered, his mind had escaped from the chaos of the large city and without realizing it, he was seconds away from an accidental nap. He was abruptly shaken from his trance by a violent crackling noise. He winced, unwittingly knocking the fortune cookie from Eames' outstretched hand.

The man chuckled and leaned back onto his side of the taxi. "Couldn't have you falling asleep on me, dear. We haven't even had supper yet."

Arthur grumbled an irritated reply under his breath. He struggled against the snug embrace of the seatbelt to pick up the fallen cookie.

Eames watched him with smiling eyes. "Thought you might like a fortune," he commented.

Arthur glanced at him skeptically. He tore open the plastic effortlessly and, with a crunch, divided the cookie cleanly in two. He removed the slip of stiff white paper with delicate fingers and gave the empty shell to Eames.

With halfhearted interest, he read the prophesy: _Your future is closer than you think._

His eyes panned upward. The first thing he noticed was the rearview mirror. Displayed in it was Eames, his eyes reflecting the scrolling skyscrapers like tiny twin mirrors. He munched unenthusiastically on the cookie while his mind spoke of bigger things.

Arthur's eyes glanced back at the fortune. His logic began molding reasons why Eames and the fortune were not related before he had even consciously made the connection. When his eyes returned to the mirror, Eames was staring straight through him. He smiled.

"Well, was it a good one, then? The fortune?"

"Awful," Arthur said quickly.

Eames turned back to his window. He smiled softly at the passing cars. "I bet it was."

Arthur attempted to shove the mischievous slip of paper into some forgotten corner of his pocket, but to his genuine confusion he found that the space was already occupied. It wasn't until after he had removed the incriminating napkin, and had it snatched from his hand, that he recalled what it was.

"What's this?" Eames asked playfully. When he realized that it was a phone number, he raised his eyebrows. "And who is the lucky owner of this number, hm? It's that fanatical waitress, isn't it?"

"No! Well, uh-"

"Uh huh. So what's your plan? Give her a ring tonight and have a snog? Is that what you want?" Eames seemed lighthearted at first, but his tone hinted at something darker. Was it anger? Jealousy?

"No! I never..." An internal puzzle piece locked into place when Arthur stared again at the phone number. "That number! Eames, I saw that phone number at the hospital! I knew it looked familiar!"

Eames was slow to adjust to the new topic of conversation. "You…what?"

"I'm certain it's the same. Eames, this number," he held up the napkin," Was in Katerina's hospital room."

Eames bore a look that meant he was on the verge of revelation. "But how is this waitress connected to Katerina?"

"If the hospital records are to be believed," Arthur stated, leaning towards him, "this waitress is her closest living relative."

Eames sat back in his seat, his thumb grazing his stubble pensively. "That waitress was rather young...you think she might be her sister?"

"Wouldn't hurt to ask," Arthur responded with a slight smile.

Eames gave one in return. "My, Arthur, we're lucky you're such an attractive boy, or we wouldn't be getting anywhere with this job."

Arthur chose to ignore his flirtatious comment. "I can use this phone number to find the waitress's address when we get back to the hotel, and -"

"When _you_ get back to the hotel," Eames corrected. He chuckled when he saw his stunned expression. "No need to get your panties in a bunch, darling, I just need to return to my apartment and pack my things. I think it's safe to say I'll be staying at your place for the next couple days."

"Oh," Arthur replied sheepishly. He saw no immediate problem with Eames staying with him. Temporarily, of course. Yet some tiny anonymous barb in the back of his mind picked at the idea. Arthur shrugged it off, assuming that he would remember the issue soon enough.

Minutes later, the taxi paused outside Arthur's hotel. He hesitated, his hand on the door handle.

"Don't worry, love," Eames urged pleasantly. "I promise our separation will be brief."

But Arthur wasn't leaving that easily. "You need money for the fare..."

"Already taken care of," Eames produced a hearty wad of cash. "That thick-headed nurse was kind enough to supply us with all the fare money we'll ever need." he winked.

Arthur ignored the blatant robbery. "So my room is on the fifth floor, it's-"

"Honestly, Arthur, have you no faith in me?" Eames gestured towards his coat pocket. "My number's in your contacts. I'll text you when I'm on the lift so you can give me a proper welcome." (A/N: He pronounced 'proper' so that it sounded like 'propah.')

Arthur couldn't help but smile; he never gave Eames the credit he deserved. His right foot was out the door when he paused again. When he turned his head again, he found that Eames was suddenly very close. His familiar scent sent his mind reeling back to that morning, in his apartment. God, how far they'd come since that morning.

"Try not to miss me too much, beautiful," he murmured in Arthur's ear. Then, with gentle celerity, Eames's lips brushed against his jaw bone. In the same breath, he shoved Arthur roughly out of the cab and onto the sidewalk.

"Cheerio!" Eames called merrily before shutting the taxi door and riding out of sight.

Arthur watched the cab for a few seconds, then, deciding it was a silly gesture, walked into the hotel lobby. His jaw buzzed with incredible sensitivity. He swore he could still feel Eames's whiskers as he had pulled away. He reviewed the movement over and over again in his head, searching for evidence that it was an accident and nothing more. However, the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that the action wasn't so benign. So, after he exited the elevator at his floor, he decided not to think about it anymore.


End file.
